


Go, Team

by chilly_flame



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2018-11-06 04:16:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11028462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chilly_flame/pseuds/chilly_flame
Summary: Found this one languishing on livejournal, and thought I'd add it to my collection. Short but sweet.Prompt, kindly provided by chainofclovers: Cheer.





	Go, Team

Miranda frowned, and then held in her laughter. If she was caught even _smiling_ at this, she was going to end up kicked out of her own bed tonight.

“What?” Andrea asked, leaning over to look at what Miranda had in her hand. “What are you looking at?”

Miranda flipped the photo in question to the back of the pile, calming her expression. “I don’t recognize any of these people,” she said, pointing at a photo of a group of teenagers, including a youthful Andrea.

“Oh, those have to be from high school,” Andrea said, gazing down at the image on top. “I look so young.”

Miranda glanced over raised an eyebrow. “Truly. You have aged decades since then, at the very least.”

Andrea rolled her eyes and leaned closer. “I had a lot of baby fat. Look at my cheeks!”

“I imagine you were a hot commodity at this age,” Miranda said, feeling a little frisson of jealousy at the prospect of Andrea’s teen paramours.

Andrea chuckled. “Not really. I was kind of a bookworm. A nerd. You know what I mean. Check out my glasses in that one. And yes, those are my real eyebrows.”

They weren’t so terrible, Miranda thought, although she much preferred Andrea’s current, more sophisticated look. “You couldn’t have always been a _nerd_ ,” Miranda said, and pulled the earlier photo out of the back of the pile to lay it on top. “I don’t believe anyone would call this girl a nerd.”

“Oh, shoot,” Andrea said, snatching the photo out of Miranda’s hands, horrified. “Where did you find this?”

“In the pile with all the rest,” Miranda replied, grabbing the picture back and grinning. “I very much like the outfit.” She spent a vaguely guilty moment admiring the curves of Andrea’s calves and thighs, revealed by her very short cheerleading skirt.

Andrea covered her face, but Miranda could see the grin beneath her hands. “I barely made it through a whole football season. I didn’t really fit in.”

“Are there any more photos from this particular era?” Miranda asked, quickly going through the shots and pulling out a few more like it. Miranda narrowed her gaze, spending a good deal of time examining the faces of Andrea’s fellow cheerleaders. “No wonder you didn’t fit in. I imagine all your compatriots were jealous.”

Andrea leveled a disbelieving gaze at her. “Miranda, don’t even. I was pudgy, I was nerdy, I was—“

“The prettiest girl here,” Miranda said, as if there was no question about it. There wasn’t, either. “I see this picture from the perspective of the editor of a rather successful fashion magazine.” She pointed at the photo. “Here you have average blondes, petite and perky, and the buxom brunettes, and of course the obligatory redhead, who is admittedly your best competition. They don’t hold a candle.” Tilting her head, Miranda assessed the group once more before nodding. “Did they torture you very much?”

Andrea shrugged. “Somebody’s got to be at the bottom of the pyramid,” she said. “I just… couldn’t get them to be friends with me. I tried really hard, too. Probably too hard.” She bit her lip, and Miranda could see the sadness on her face. “I didn’t even try out the next year. Looking back it’s amazing I made the squad even once.”

“I would have thought you had a very successful high school career. You’re so confident, so talented,” Miranda said, honestly.

“It got better, after the first year. I think every girl is awkward at that age.” She glanced at Miranda. “Except maybe you,” she added with a sideways grin. “I can’t imagine you ever having an awkward school picture.”

“Oh, I had my moments,” Miranda admitted.

“Can I see?” Andrea asked. “You get to see all my stuff, but only because I’m moving in. Do you have pictures I can look at sometime?”

With a sigh, Miranda agreed. “All right. But not tonight. I’ll have to do some digging in the attic.” This was only partially true; the photos were in the attic, but they were all perfectly organized, by decade, in labeled albums. Tonight she wanted to focus on Andrea, who was out of sorts and anxious about finally making the leap to co-habitation. She’d lived with someone before, with the _cook_ , but that was out of necessity. This was by choice. In Miranda’s mind, this meant more. It also meant more since there were children involved—this seemed a permanent arrangement. There was nothing set in stone (or in writing), but at her advanced age, she’d finally come to understand the phrase “blinded by love,” and had committed wholeheartedly.

She took the handful of photographs out of Andrea’s hands. Carefully she placed those of her lover as innocent, cherubic cheerleader behind the rest. Continuing to go through them, she asked, “Who’s this?” when she came upon the image of a blondish boy with an arm around Andrea.

That brought more smiles to Andrea’s face. “My boyfriend from sophomore year. And part of junior year, too. Eric. I think he’s a doctor now.” She frowned, as if caught in a memory. “My mom was so mad when I broke up with him.”

“Why did you?” Miranda asked, although she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

There was a long, long pause. “I guess it was because I didn’t want to give it up. He was a little pushy.”

Miranda inhaled, trying not to let her ire show. “You mean sexually?”

“Yes, Miranda, I mean sexually.” She looked shy now. “I was still a virgin. So by the time I was 16 he was ready, and I… wasn’t.”

“My god,” Miranda said. Sixteen was just around the corner for her girls. If any boy laid a hand on either of them—

“Sweetie, it wasn’t any big deal. I said no, and he survived on hand jobs for a while—“

“My god!” Miranda repeated. “Hand jobs? You were practically a child! That is outrageous.”

“—and when he got annoyed, I got annoyed too, because it wasn’t like I was getting anything close to, you know, an orgasm, since he had no idea that there was even such a thing as a clitoris, and I barely knew my own body either—“

Miranda’s ears were bleeding. She wished she’d never said a thing.

“—so I broke it off. Anyway, I dated on and off in high school after that, but it wasn’t till my freshman year in college that I lost my virginity.”

With a sigh, Miranda said, “At least you were of a more appropriate age. Still rather young, though.”

“How old were you?”

“I can barely remember,” Miranda replied honestly. “Around twenty, I think. I was in London, in school. It was terrible, and over in ten minutes. Very forgettable.” She didn’t enjoy sex until she’d met husband number one, and the sex was probably the main reason she married him—she thought it meant they were compatible. Over the years, she’d married for worse reasons, all things considered.

“Mine was kind of like that too. I was almost sober, but he wasn’t. He threw up in my dorm room trashcan afterwards.” She laughed. “I don’t know if the booze helped me, but it slowed him down enough to let me enjoy it a little more than I thought I would.” She rifled through the photos for a moment until she found what she was looking for. “Here he is. Jimmy. I have no idea what happened to him. We lost touch, but he was gorgeous.”

He was quite attractive, Miranda agreed silently. They made a lovely pair, all dark eyes and dark hair. His was curly, not unlike the _cook’s_ , and his olive skin shone with youth and vitality even in the unforgiving light of the camera flash. Physically, Miranda was the polar opposite of whatever type Andrea may have had in her younger days. “I don’t look very much like him, do I,” she muttered.

Andrea just laughed. “Nope. There’s nobody like you, Miranda. I didn’t know you were my type till I saw you. And got to know you, that is.”

“I’m sure,” Miranda said. Neither of them had been particularly attracted to one another at the beginning. After their own first tentative confessions of affection, that little detail had come out, to the amusement of both of them.

Miranda gazed at Jimmy for a moment, until she finally asked, “How many others have there been?”

“Other what?” Andrea asked.

“Other men. Lovers.” They had both been irresponsible at the beginning, overcome by lust, but since then both had tested clean, thank goodness.

“Starting with Jimmy, three. Er, four. I tend to forget about Christian since I barely remember that little… blunder.”

Miranda was startled. She knew the number was perfectly reasonable, but Miranda had slept with many more men than that. She was almost embarrassed. “That’s… very few.”

“Well, I was never much for casual sex. I’m still not.” Her smile was radiant as she stroked Miranda’s cheek. “Always have been a romantic.”

Miranda nodded, knowing this to be true. “I haven’t been a romantic,” Miranda admitted. “Not till you.”

“I know,” Andrea said, taking hold of Miranda’s hand. “I knew you before.”

“Yes, I remember.” She was thinking of the day she’d asked Andrea to get something for Stephen’s birthday, during the _assistant year_. ‘I don’t care what it is. Just something to wrap.’ It couldn’t have been a more impersonal request. In the end, Stephen had been impressed by the watch, engraved with their anniversary date and the words, ‘Always, Miranda.’ He’d liked the monogrammed ties and handkerchiefs even more. Looking back, Miranda thought she’d gotten a few good weeks out of those gifts. The marriage had soured by then, but a thoughtful gift went a long way to mending fences.

Now, she knew a thoughtful gift could do far more than that. It could show love where there had been none, and she was grateful to have learned the lesson. “You showed me romance, darling, in all its simplicity.”

“When you don’t have a zillion bucks, sometimes it takes a little more creativity to express yourself,” Andrea drawled, sitting up and straddling Miranda’s lap. “Remember the silverware I sent you once? For the picnic?”

Miranda smiled. “I do. Wrapped up in a lovely gold ribbon, with an invitation to the park, where you presented me with a homemade meal. Which was divine.”

Andrea laughed. “It wasn’t,” she said. “It was the worst thing ever! I was so humiliated. But you ate every bite.” She sighed, and kissed Miranda tenderly. “That day, I thought then you might like me, just a little bit. Otherwise you never would’ve been able to choke it down. That was a gift in itself.”

The food had been terrible, Miranda recalled vividly. The chicken had been overcooked, the asparagus shriveled, the salad overdressed. But the company had been beautiful, and kind, and so eager to please and impress that Miranda been unable to disappoint. “Your cooking skills have improved markedly since then,” Miranda reminded her.

“True. Once I started trusting that I wouldn’t kill either of us with undercooked poultry,” she teased. “I’d never cooked much before I knew you. I’d been spoiled, by Nate.”

Miranda nuzzled Andrea’s throat, and whispered in her ear, “I don’t want to talk about Nate, or any of those other boys.” She nibbled a velvet earlobe. “I don’t want to talk at all.”

Andrea released a shuddering breath, her head tilting back. “No problem.” One of Andrea’s hands moved across the duvet, pushing piles of photos onto the floor. “You know,” Andrea said softly, as Miranda pushed her down onto the mattress, “I might have that old cheerleading uniform somewhere in one of my suitcases.”

With a swallow, Miranda looked down. Andrea’s eyes twinkled, and her eyebrows waggled. She looked goofy, and happy, and in love. Miranda was briefly tempted, then bit her lip. She couldn’t wait. “Maybe next time.”

~end


End file.
